Knock Once
by Delgodess
Summary: To Abstergo, the Animus was a window to the past. To Rebecca Crane, it was a door. One she'd make sure they never found.


Rebecca remembers when the idea of the Animus was first presented to her; the thrilling shiver that crept down her spine at its potential. She remembers the code, a bright array of vibrant 0s and 1s strung together by commands, how beautifully it all meshed. She remembers how excited she was to touch it, to actually be able to build something _this_ monumental. Even her own lackluster experience connected to the machine couldn't dampen the sheer adrenaline rush that came with the knowledge of what danced at her finger tips.

And then...there was Desmond.

Desmond's use of the animus was...unreal. His history, his _family's_ history, as Assassins was so _long_ and so _intense_ it- it was _nothing_ like just _watching_ events unfold.

He was _there_. He became a part of it.

Maybe that's why he was able to handle the Bleeding Effect so well.

Maybe that's why he never went crazy.

Rebecca remembers the worry, the strain of having to watch someone struggle to stand under the weight of the world. She remembers the anxiety of watching over Desmond's prone body, monitoring his brain signals, his heart, his breathing. Knowing that if she doesn't make sure he's OK, everything would just... fall apart.

She remembers seeing what he saw; sending him messages, finding puzzles.

She remembers wishing that she could be there, in the Animus, _her_ Animus, just so she could experience what it was like when Desmond went in.

Now she just wishes he wasn't dead.

She remembers the struggle afterwards, her determination to do more, to plant herself in a position where she could _be there_ to do more.

Rebecca remembers walking into the lobby of Abstergo Entertainment, listening to the Montreal residence chatter away in French.

She remembers smiling at Shaun in his coffee booth, poking fun at his tie, and then receiving the data package from one of the noob employees.

She remembers the door to exit the building, sunlight streaming through the glass plains.

She remembers the sharp prick of something on the back of her neck, the way she stumbled, nausea sharp and biting as the world swayed.

Rebecca remembers the slew of curses that went through her mind as she fumbled to wipe her tablet clean of anything incriminating, hoping that her encrypted email got out before they got her.

She can't remember why she remembers all this. Or how. All she knows is that the pixels flickering in front of her eyes look eerily like Animus code, and isn't that strange, because she's only ever seen this once, _oh_ , ages ago, and never like this, never so smooth and clean, except perhaps when it was _her_ Animus and _her_ computer screen monitoring everything that could ever _possibly_ go wrong.

And then she doesn't have time to remember because the water hits her like a freight train, cold and wet and freezing and good _god_ , she can't _breathe_!

There something pulling her down, a current she can't fight and she gasps at its strength, realizing too late that water can get _in_ that way and it does, rushing down her throat and filling her lungs with brine, her mouth with salt and sea.

'The Ocean!' She thinks through jumbled panics of 'No air! It Hurts! NO AIR!'

Then something snags around her belly, dragging her up and out, catching on the water logged fabric of her sweat suit as it lurches up beneath her arms in a motion that expels more water and vomit from her lungs than air.

She lands hard, what little training she's had triggering just in time to force her body into a roll, arms and legs curling to protect her vital areas from the bodily impact of flesh against wood.

The pain in her spine explodes in the back of her eyes, 1s and 0s flashing like pricks of light.

"We've got 'em Cap'n! Looks like 'es still breathin'!"

Rebecca's eyes flicker closed just as the dark brown boots enter her sight, too exhausted to bother remembering why being _dumped into a foreign DNA stream_ was the opitamy of _everything that could ever_ possibly _go wrong_.


End file.
